Page 70 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Osric, a bit addicted to her gasps of pleasure, and unprepared to say farewell just yet, asked, “Would you like to see the science library?”

And Fairhrim, normally a pillar of composure, rewarded him with a wide-eyed, enthusiastic, “Yes.”

Osric led her to Rosefell’s west wing. “The east library is the estate’s original library. I had to build a new one. We outgrew it.”

Her arm brushed his as they walked; the touch was a small glory. As Osric unlocked the doors, Fairhrim eyed the collection of Vesalius’De humani corporis fabricain its glass display case.

Osric kept the curtains tightly drawn in this library, which housed rarer and older tomes. Long lines of shelves disappeared into shadow. The library was adorned with gold Venetian lanterns, suspended from chains throughout. Osric did not usually trouble to light them, but as Fairhrim was here—

It was worth it just for her intake of breath as the lanterns, spinning slowly, cast their traceries of light through the room. He stared after her longingly.

Like an idiot.

The lanterns illuminated hushed rows of books, Renaissance tapestries, and, above it all, a blue-black ceiling adorned with stars.

“Here we bid farewell to Ovid,” said Osric. “That’s the northern celestial hemisphere.”

Fairhrim looked up in wonder. The lantern light made the gilt constellations glitter.

“Ovid is still with us,” she said. “Hercules. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor. Andromeda. Perseus.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Fairhrim made her way through shelves bookended by the busts of ancient greats—Aristotle, Pythagoras, Archimedes, Hippocrates.

Osric followed. “This was once an enfilade of three staterooms. I had the walls knocked down and remodelled along neoclassical lines.”

“A much better use of the rooms,” said Fairhrim.

She called out names as she went, as though encountering old friends—Dioscorides, Galen, Paracelsus, and then down a more modern row—Lovelace, Gordon-Cumming, Rudge, Stanhope.

“I wonder if you’ll notice the obvious gap in the collection, which I must remedy,” said Osric.

“Who’s missing?”

“Fairhrim.”

The scholar in question tried not to look too pleased. “I’m not certain you’ve got the space.”

“I’ll make the space.”

“But I’m Pugnacious and a Whingebag.”

“You’ll be shelved under Whingebag.”

“You tend towards the classics. I’m rather too cutting edge for you.”

“I like sharp things.”

“Modern journals aren’t as aesthetically pleasing as these volumes.”

“Anything to do with you is pleasing.”

There was a pause. Fairhrim asked, “Are you flirting with me?”

“I assume you’re still a safe flirt,” said Osric—a bit of a prod to see if she would hint at remembering the night before.

“Foolproof,” said Fairhrim.